Friday, I come back from PT, and she’s still at work. I notice her suitcase in the corner of the bedroom, still packed. Like she’s five weeks into a hotel stay rather than living somewhere. I hate it.
I do a quick inventory of my dresser and decide I can put my socks and underwear in one drawer so Ella can at least have one to herself. Women need space for private things. Everyone does.
While I’m at it, I rearrange the closet so it’s half empty, and I steal a bunch of hangers from Rookie’s room so that when she comes home, she sees the space as an invitation to stay as long as she wants.
I station myself on the couch and act engrossed in the game on TV when Ella gets home from work. “Hey, B,” she trills, a new nickname that has my nerve endings fizzing in happiness. I wave and stay put while she heads into the room to change. I hear her pause, imagine her taking in the gesture. And then I hear the sounds of suitcase zippers and pants being shaken onto hangers.
I limp to the bedroom and lean against the door frame, watching. She turns to me, a dress clutched against her chest and a smile splitting her face. “Did you do all this?”
I nod. “Cleared out the top drawer for you, too, if you want.” I lean into the room and flick it open, gesturing at the open space.
A tiny tear forms at the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away, smiling. Ella bends to grab a bundle of stuff from her suitcase and sets it in the drawer without saying a word.
"Bro. You good?” Rookie drops his road bag in the hallway and stares at me.
I'm on the couch, knee wrapped, watching film from the road games I missed. Ella is at work. The apartment is clean. The drawer is full of her clothes, and the closet has her shoes, and none of this is visible from the living room, but I still feel like I'm wearing a confession.
"I've been doing PT," I say. "Getting healthy."
"You look … rested." He squints. "Did you sleep?"
"On occasion."
He collapses onto the couch beside me, long legs sprawling, and starts scrolling his phone. "We went one and two. Spinner had a hat trick in Carolina, though. You should have seen it." He launches into a play-by-play, complete with hand gestures and sound effects, and I listen because these are my teammates and it’s my job to know this stuff.
Rookie’s energy and volume fill the room. I used to be the same way. The life of the party. The loud one. Now I'm sitting here thinking about how Ella fell asleep with her head on my chest, and I don't want to be loud anymore. I want to be quiet with her.
"We should go out," Rookie announces. "You've been cooped up in here for a week. Get some real food. Gianna's?"
"I don't know, man. My knee?—"
"You can put your leg on a bench. Come on. I'll text the guys."
I should say no. I should stay on this couch and wait for Ella and preserve what little remains of this bubble. But saying no to Rookie right now, when he's looking at me with that oblivious golden retriever enthusiasm, would raise questions I can't answer.
"Fine," I say. "Meatballs sound great.”
Gianna's is crowded. The back room is ours, per usual, though, and I have my leg propped up on a bench next to Spinner while Mayhem reads something on his phone and Jason inhales dry turkey meatballs like he’s been starved the whole week.
Other guys filter in and out. Cappy and Banksy stop by. Even Grentley makes an appearance, drinks a single beer in the corner like a vampire at a cookout, and leaves without saying goodbye to anyone.
The beers flow my way from all the guys. Gianna keeps them coming, and I'm on my fourth when Rookie tells a story about a fan in Florida who asked him to sign her chest, and he accidentally drew a dick.
"It wasn't accidental," Spinner says.
"It was! My hand slipped!"
"Your hand drew a full shaft with veins, Rookie."
The table erupts. I'm laughing, loose, warm. My knee doesn't hurt. The food is good. My friends are here. For a minute, I forget the weight I'm carrying, and I'm just Howie — life of the party, the one who makes sure everyone has a good time.
Rookie looks at me with glassy eyes. “We—” he hiccups. “Should not drive home, and you can’t walk with that knee, bruh.”
I shake my head. “That is correct.”
"Hey," he says, pulling out his phone. "Ella can come pick up your car. Save the dishwashers a trip." Warning bells ring in my foggy head, but he's already texting. "She's off tonight, right?"
"I think so," I manage, because my throat just closed. I know exactly when her shift ends, and which route she’ll take to get here from Mercy. Maybe she’ll bring her friends to flirt with Spinner again.
